


Satisfaction With Two

by esqueish (mogigraphia)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Multi, PWP, Threesome, female!John
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-11-03
Updated: 2011-11-03
Packaged: 2017-10-25 16:02:47
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,421
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/272139
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mogigraphia/pseuds/esqueish
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Joan can't seem to find a man to properly satisfy her. Perhaps what she needs, is two men? Originally posted anonymously on the Sherlockbbc_fic kink meme, 2/9/2010.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Satisfaction With Two

**Author's Note:**

> I promised myself (or rather, threatened myself) that I would own up to all the fannish things that I've done when I got an account here, so I could put it all in one place. Which means owning up to the, er, more pervy things that I've written. This is one of them. I've dusted it off a bit and taken some of the smudges off of it's face, so hopefully it is to your enjoyment.

  


  
  


Joan was staring down at Sherlock as he spread her legs slowly, and somehow she found it humorous how intent he was, how even now he was cataloging every nervous twitch that ran across her taut stomach, the somewhat labored rise and fall of her chest, the way her hands fisted in the previously immaculate fabric at the thighs of Mycroft's trousers as he shifted behind her. She wouldn't be surprised if this was all going on a spreadsheet later. As she watched Mycroft opening her shirt, his fingers precise and elegant on each button, watched as Sherlock opened the fly on her ratty jeans, less with grace and more as a way from point A to point B, she wondered how on earth she had gotten here. 

  
It had started simply enough, she had come home from picking up Thai for dinner, and also picking up more milk, because God knows where that kept disappearing to, it wasn't as if Sherlock did anything with it. She'd found Mycroft in his usual chair for visits (here meaning, Joan's chair). Sherlock was at the couch, and both were severely annoyed, or so it seemed at first. She was almost positive now that it had been a ruse, to lull her into a false sense of security, though all she had been was annoyed herself by the pair of them. It was hard not to be when the first words out of Mycroft's mouth were pertaining to the quality of the people she'd been dating recently. It was even harder not to become angry when Sherlock agreed with him.

  
"Excuse me," she'd said, trying not to show how insulted she felt, that was like blood in the water for sharks. It wasn't as if there was anything truly wrong with the last few, Lacey had been beautiful, had always listened when she was speaking, and Marcus had made her laugh, yet...

  
"Well obviously, they didn't satisfy you," Sherlock scoffed, flicking through another page of some sort of chemistry journal, it made Joan want to march over and yank on his hair, just to see his expression.

  
"She's somewhat satisfied," said Mycroft,trying to be fair with exaggerated effort, and under his gaze Joan felt stripped, scrutinized, as he had the somewhat unfair benefit of understanding complex human emotion compared to Sherlock's understanding of everything else. "But not enough for her tastes, I imagine."

  
Joan suppressed the urge to chuck the Thai to the floor (Jesus, why was she still standing there holding it?), and somehow found herself uttering, "Oh? And I suppose you two could do loads better?" 

  
And suddenly, that appeared to be what the two of them were waiting for. Sherlock sat up straight, a gleam in his eye that Joan usually associated with being on the edge of solving a case. Mycroft merely smiled. 

  
"Would you be willing to test such a hypothesis, Joan?"

 

 

  
And before Joan has much time to do more than open her mouth to speak, Sherlock was crossing the room, gathering her to him and bending until their mouths met. Her eyes went round with shock, and dinner truly would have gone spilling everywhere at that point had Mycroft not surripitously taken the bags and set them on a sidetable that miraculously was not too covered in junk. In their place, Mycroft slid his own hands, threading his fingers through hers in what felt like a surprisingly intimate gesture. Not that Joan had much time to think about that, Sherlock was still being shockingly good at kissing. 

  
Between placing small, exacting kisses along the slope of Joan's neck, Mycroft eyed the room. 

  
"Hmm, the couch ought to do nicely."

  
Which was where Joan Watson currently found herself. Mycroft had sat first, spreading his legs and pulling her down between them, and she felt him solidly behind her like an anchor. His fingers slid through her short hair, a little choppy around the neck since she usually trimmed it herself. She should have probably asked what on earth was going on, if they had been plotting this before Joan had left Tesco, before she'd even left Baker Street. 

  
Before she'd begun any of that, however, Sherlock had started to nudge her legs apart, looking at her purposefully, and he was so goddamn close, smelling like the soap she'd bought to clean dishes with ("It all works the same Joan, it's just packaging!") and vaguely of ash, and the heat he gave off quite made her forget how to breathe, let alone articulate words. This was when they saw fit to rid her of clothing  
. 

  
Mycroft carefully tugged her arms out of her sleeves, sitting her up slightly to unclasp her bra with practiced hands. Sherlock bent forward at the same time, his lips and teeth finding her scar, making careful patterns around it, and Joan let a breathy sigh, her hands finding his curls and tugging sharply. Sherlock made an annoyed noise, his hands skating to her inner thighs as he sat up and looked at her pleased expression, while Mycroft looked amused over her shoulder. 

  
"Happy now?" He asked, looking as if he wanted to get back to where he had been, his eyes darting to the now wet patch of skin with interest. Joan tugged the hair she still gripped upwards, more gently this time, until their faces were close. 

  
"Almost," she said, grinning, before their lips met again. They kissed for a moment, a little more thoroughly than they had standing up, before Mycroft slid one strap of Joan's now loose bra down her arm, kissing the spot it had been with an open mouth. 

  
Joan hummed into Sherlock's mouth, her fingers tightening and loosening just slightly as Mycroft repeated the movement on the other side. She moved her arms, and the garment was tossed somewhere in the direction of the mantel. Mycroft's hands slid up her stomach, kissing the back of her neck, his nose in her hair, as he cupped her breasts, teasing her nipples between thumbs and forefingers. Joan hummed in appreciation, arching into his touch then back against him, and forward again to Sherlock, as if she couldn't make up her mind about who she'd rather be touching. 

  
Sherlock made an exasperated scoff, breaking their kiss to move his lips against Joan's neck, glaring at Mycroft over her shoulder. 

  
"My brother...always did have a problem with sharing," Mycroft said from behind her right ear, his lips brushing it as he spoke. Joan hummed again, the noise more like a moan, her hips moving a little restlessly, feeling Sherlock between them. At the movement, Sherlock seemed to remember what he'd been trying to accomplish earlier, and quickly divested Joan of her jeans, shoving them carelessly behind him and moving back into the warm vee of her legs.    


 

Joan felt a little more exposed now, skin that hadn't seen the light of day since she'd come back to London was now stretched across the couch, her thighs splayed across Mycroft's. All she had left were a rather unremarkable pair of white cotton knickers, though it was obvious the crotch was dampening.   


  


 

Sherlock made a noise of interest, looking pleased as he ran his hands up her thighs, bending down til his cheek nearly rested on her right inner thigh. He stopped there for a moment, just looking, his eyes darting in minute movements that suggested he was making a plan of action, and Joan was about to knee him in the head and tell him to learn some spontaneity when he rolled his face forward and licked her through the fabric. 

  
Joan gave up trying to hold back and moaned, her hips rolling unconciously. She heard Mycroft hiss behind her, his fingers tightening, his breath coming in small puffs past the shell of her ear. They were moving together in an abbreviated rhythm, a cacophony of noises quietly pulled out of each of them in turn. Sherlock's long fingers were crawling up her inner thighs, and Joan laughed helplessly, squirming back against Mycroft, whose fingers became momentarily too tight on her breasts. Sherlock grinned, the smile he wore when he was happy to be surprised. 

  
"Ticklish, not something I would have..." he began, drifting off as other things became more interesting than completing the sentence. Other things, as in, teasing Joan mercilessly. Sherlock hooked his thumbs in the crotch of her panties, pulling them down her legs slowly. Joan wiggled, making a face at him as he took far longer than she was sure he needed to. 

  
Her frustration was however noted by Mycroft; his hands were moving down her waist, sliding down her hipbones and pulling her thighs open again as Sherlock got the slightly soaked cotton material to her ankles. 

  
"Patience is a virtue, as they say," he said coolly, and spread her open without preamble, sliding a finger through her folds. Joan snapped her head back, a quiet gasp escaping her. Sherlock rocked back a little, watching with glazed eyes, catching his bottom lip between his teeth.

  
Mycroft begun to methodically take Joan apart, making a wide circle around her clit and slowly tightening the radius, touching and sliding fingertips everywhere but where she needed. She felt sweat beading just under her breasts, her hands damp as she held onto the poor couch for dear life, her knuckles going white. The back of her head was cradled in the crook of Mycroft's neck, and his breath wafted over her wet skin and rose goosebumps. 

  
Joan gasped unexpectedly, her back tensing up, and usually she drew this out, didn't let herself come this fast, and her breath caught in her chest; and then Mycroft backed off, stroking wet fingertips along her thighs before she could plunge over the edge. Joan bucked her hips, feeling a little desperate despite herself, and this is where Sherlock decided he was done watching. 

  
His hands were back at the creases of her thighs and pelvis, his thick but elegant thumbs holding her open as he licked Joan from bottom to top, nudging his tongue against her clit delicately, and she had to resist the urge to grab the top of Sherlock's head and press him down into her cunt. 

  
Sherlock laughed low in his chest, the vibrations scattering through Joan's wet folds, and she arched her back, finding the Mycroft's hands, which had been questing for a new place to play, slid up her ribs as he carefully bit at her left ear. 

  
Joan couldn't make herself focus, she was torn between the two men, the two brothers so meticulously taking her apart piece by piece. It was almost surreal to feel Mycroft's hands sliding over her skin as Sherlock took oral sex to a higher art form. Normally, this was about when Joan would insist on reciprocating, it always felt unfair when the focus was solely on her, but she couldn't even force her mouth to form words. 

Sherlock clamped his mouth down, sucking hard on everything behind his lips and Joan's eyes fluttered as she pressed backward, becoming aware of the erection in the small of her back, which only made her grind back with purpose. Mycroft's breath was coming in short bursts, as if he was trying very hard to control himself. Sherlock pulled back a little, his tongue flicking her clit with in a quick rhythm that made Joan's body jerk while she gasped repeatedly. Panting, she put a hand to Sherlock's forehead, pushing a few inches away.

  
"If you don't fuck me now," she told him, trying to keep her eyes open as Mycroft's hands began to stealthily sneak downwards, "I'm going to get up and go ruin the experiment in the kitchen with the...the fingers in the acetone," she leaned back against Mycroft's chest and made herself breathe. "As soon as I can find my legs."

  
The self diagonosed sociopath grinned at her fondly, rocking back onto his heels and reaching for his zip, and that definitely wasn't enough for Joan, who found it in herself to sit up and reach for his collar. 

  
"I don't think so," she said, attempting to undo buttons without losing patience and ripping the shirt open, "both of you need to be a lot more naked. Immediately." Mycroft laughed, truly laughed, for the first time in Joan's hearing, and she realized she put on her 'army surgeon' voice. "It's true," she said, feeling a little sheepish as she pushed the lavender shirt from Sherlock's unbelievably pale shoulders. Behind her, Joan heard Mycroft setting his cufflinks carefully on the floor, in lieu of a clean table close by. 

  
As soon as Sherlock was free of his shirt, Joan kept herself from immediately devouring the the beautiful milky plains of his chest, going instead for his zip. He laughed deep in his chest, feeling around beneath the edge of the couch, and coming up with two condoms that definitely had not been there the last time Joan had given the room it's cursory cleaning. 

  
"I cannot believe you two, remind me to be angry later," she said, pulling him close and biting down on his right shoulder. Sherlock threw his head back, soft noises coming from him. He arched his hips forward, and the fabric brushing against her, dampening as he pressed closer, and became beyond what she could take. Joan reached down again for his zip at the same time Sherlock did, and they both laughed a little as they managed to get the trousers out of their way. 

  
Sherlock looked over her shoulder for a moment, his eyes a little unfocused. 

  
"Hm, perhaps Mycroft ought to enter first Joan, with the way we're sitting." Joan wasn't entirely sure what he meant, but she trusted Sherlock, and nodded, reaching a hand back. First she found thigh, still covered in trouser, then an open fly, and hard cock already covered in condom, and Joan wondered if the elder Holmes brother was ever unprepared, which lead to her imagining the pair of them in Boy Scouts, which just made her giggle a little breathlessly until Sherlock lifted her up a little. She felt Mycroft's cock nudging her, felt him carefully spreading her cheeks apart and oh,   
 _oh_  
, because it makes perfect sense, Sherlock smiled a little crookedly at her. 

  
"Knew you'd get there eventually," he said, and Joan managed to tell him to stuff it, panting a little as Mycroft snapped closed the container of lube (she really will kill them later), circling the tight pucker of flesh before pressing a finger inside. It had been longer than Joan would like to admit since she had done this, and she couldn't draw a breath as Mycroft made it two fingers. "Relax, Joan."

  
She would tell him to bloody well relax, but couldn't quite form the words, and instead settled for covering his hand with her own while he rolled his condom down and squeezing, pleased to hear his breathing stutter. 

  
Joan couldn't help but hold her breath as she slid down onto Mycroft's cock, Sherlock drawing a hand down the column of her neck and kissing the corner of her mouth absentmindedly. The three of them were still for a moment, waiting for her to adjust, and then she reached down for Sherlock's cock, feeling the most impatient she'd ever been since two days before the Christmas of 1984. 

  
Sherlock huffed as if it was supposed to be a chuckle, but Joan wasn't paying attention because Sherlock was sliding inside of her and she wanted to wrap her legs around him and lock her ankles together because   
 _fuck_  
. They were still again for perhaps a second, then Sherlock drew out slightly and back in, which caused Joan to move upwards, which caused Mycroft to shift, all of them stirring and sighing together. 

  
The air in Joan's lungs felt static and heavy; she felt as if she was unable to draw breath in or out. Her arms churned, her hands searching, as if they couldn't decide where they wanted to be. Finally, one planted itself on Sherlock's chest, her fingertips sliding through the sweat gathering there, the other reaching back to hold onto Mycroft's shoulder as he slowly rocked his hips upwards, rolling them with firm, even strokes. 

  
Sherlock was just the opposite, and it made Joan want to laugh. He was following his brother's lead, fucking into her with a careful thoroughness, but there was something in the way his hands scrambled for purchase on Joan's hips, in the wild of his eyes, and how he seemed to itch and throb in his skin that suggested that he would rather be sliding into her hard and fast,   
 _slamslamslam_  
ing with the couch groaning its protest of their movements. 

  
Their eyes met, and maybe it was too much, because Sherlock immediately bent forward, his face in the crook of Joan's neck. She could feel his lips moving, and she thought for one sex blind moment that he was reinventing the kiss because that was just so   
 _Sherlock_  
, and then she realized he was speaking, brokenly gasping her name in a voice barely above a whisper. 

  
And it took Joan by surprise all over again, the strangled gasp in her throat barely heard over the noises the brothers made as she fluttered over them both, leaving pink raised lines down Sherlock's chest as she clenched and clenched and clenched her hand. Her leg was half wound around Sherlock, her toes pressing into his lower back, and Joan could feel the muscles there tense so hard as he felt her come. 

  
Her mind was a haze, she was still taking the rollercoaster ride, only the feeling in her stomach that comes just after tipping over the top of the hill was rocketing through her body, bending her backwards like a violin bow. Mycroft was whispering perfectly articulated filth into her ear, the only sign that he was just as close as Sherlock in how his hands went tighter and tighter on either side of her chest, just beneath her quivering breasts. 

  
Sherlock was still thrusting, their bodies making wet noises where they joined together, a bead of sweat slowly crawling down his temple. Joaned reached down to cup his face, pulling him up and their lips together, and the nonstop assault to her nerve endings was bordering on painful, her thighs trembling uncontrollably. Joan bit down on Sherlock's bottom lip, drawing blood, and he gave in, driving into her with all the relentlessness of his fierce intellect. Joan howled, her voice cracking higher than she would have thought possible if she hadn't been in the process of being thoroughly fucked by two men at once. 

  
Joan's breathe was catching again, because Mycroft was still making controlled, almost lazy circles beneath her, one hand moving down the slope of her abdomen to flick her clit methodically with his middle finger, and it was bursting over her again, her vision sparkling and fuzzing around the edges like her eyes were watering, and they probably were.

"Oh, oh," she stuttered, as her back muscles went taut repeatedly, and Sherlock moans low in his throat and she then could feel him _pulsepulsepulse_ inside of her as he bit down on where her neck met her shoulder. Joan wanted to collapse, felt as if her bones might melt out of her body, her limbs splayed higgledy piggledy across the two of them, but Mycroft was panting harsh little breaths into the short hairs at the top of her neck, the beds of his fingernails going bloodless as he presses them into Joan's shining skin.

So Joan cranked her torso around, her fingernails digging into his shoulderblade to keep herself in place as she licked into his open mouth, kissing sloppily and grinding herself downwards onto his cock, this was all he needed because he spent himself almost immediately, sighing almost contentedly.

There was a moment of almost stillness, Sherlock almost blindly seeking out a spot to rest his head, finally placing it on Joan's shoulder, and leaning into her hand like a cat as she carded her fingers through his hair fondly. There was a rumble of amusement at Joan's back, and she could tell Mycroft was being unbearably smug, again. Finally, she breaks the silence.

"If there's going to be round two, we're going to have to move to Sherlock's bed, because I have a feeling this position only works for hours in porn, not reality."

The brothers laugh delightedly.


End file.
